


A Kiss that Can't Renew

by elizaye



Series: Fifty Follower Fics [8]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Asexual Castiel, Bottom Castiel, Cheating, Infidelity, Lack of Communication, Lies, M/M, Married Castiel/Dean Winchester, Prompt Fic, Top Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-04
Updated: 2014-11-04
Packaged: 2018-02-24 02:02:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2564162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elizaye/pseuds/elizaye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean and Castiel are married with adopted twin daughters. They met when they were very small, and they've been close ever since. They had a happy marriage, smooth sailing all through the girls' childhoods. Lately, though, their relationship has started fraying at the edges, and it falls to friends and family to coax them to work it out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Kiss that Can't Renew

**Author's Note:**

  * For [coffindoors](https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffindoors/gifts).



> For my 550th follower, coffindoors ([jetblackfeeling](http://deantops.co.vu/) on tumblr). This has been a _very_ long time coming. Sorry!!
> 
> Prompt: _…ok, it’s actually about Dean cheating on Cas, with a girl or boy, maybe both. Dean hid it but Cas found out. Dean and Cas are married and with an adopted child. And happy endings and y’know IwillreallyappreciatebottomCas?_ ([Click here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1101155/comments/6042889) for full prompt.)
> 
> So in case you didn't read the tags or the prompt, this is your warning: **This fic contains cheating!Dean.** There is no magical happy-ever-after at the end, because cheating is very serious (I really don't take it lightly; I've known a guy who practically became a completely different person because of a betrayal like that), but I left it pretty open ended.
> 
> There is definitely room for the story to continue, I realize that, but I've let these prompts sit for way too goddamn long so I figure I need to just try to get them out before I get so buried that I won't want to dig myself out anymore.
> 
> As an aside: I don't think I've ever written an asexual character before. It's kind of a gray area, but then sexuality as a whole is a pretty huge gray area. There are just so many variations. So if this version of ace!Cas offends anyone, please know it was not my intention.

Dean loves Castiel.

That much has never been in question. They’ve been friends since before Dean can remember, and it’s impossible to imagine life without Cas, because Dean literally has never lived a life without him, not really. They spent a total of four years mostly apart, because Dean went off to college on the East Coast while Cas stayed back home, but Dean was never a fan of big cities, and coming home to Lawrence was inevitable.

Dean and Cas became close when they were four years old, because Mom had just died, and Dad was still working fulltime, which meant that Sam and Dean had to be looked after. Bobby was Dad’s friend on the force, and his wife, Karen, was already taking care of their adopted son, so naturally, the Singers had been the first people Dad turned to.

Cas had been gracious in a way four-year-olds seldom were, generous with his toys and sensitive about Dean’s loss, and sometimes Dean thinks that maybe it had started a little even then.

But even if that was where the seeds for their relationship were planted, it certainly wasn’t where the relationship started. Dean was very much fond of girls when he got to the age for it, and he definitely didn’t try to hide it from Cas. Cas hadn’t really reacted positively or negatively, generally supportive of Dean’s pursuits but never really showing interest in anyone himself, boy or girl.

Yeah, if Dean really thinks about it, for Cas, it _really_ might have started when he was four freaking years old, because Cas is a freak of nature, has always been a freak of nature, and Dean loves that about him.

It took _years_ for Dean to catch up to Cas, and even after the breakthrough he had about his feelings for Cas—the biggest hint had been when he went to a bar to hook up and couldn’t settle on anyone because none of them had the right voice or eyes or hair, or that stupid head tilt that Cas did whenever Dean was being particularly weird. Even after that, it had taken Dean another eight months to work up the courage to actually _do_ something about it, because Cas was apparently under the impression that nothing had to change.

Because Cas was _happy_ with the way things were, and it didn’t even fucking _matter_ to him whether or not he ever got to touch Dean, didn’t matter to him if Dean didn’t know how he felt.

As a kid, Dean used to joke that Cas was from planet Vulcan.

In response, Cas had just said, serious as ever, that he understood the comparison and deemed it apt himself, because he apparently identified with Spock, the little shit.

It’s been years and years since they first came together, even longer since they first met, and Castiel Singer has been Castiel Winchester for… god, going on seventeen years, now.

They’ve been best friends for their whole lives, yet nowadays, Dean feels like there’s this divide between them, like they’re spending less and less time together. And he _would_ say that it is entirely his fault, because he’s—been doing what he’s been doing, behind Cas’s back, but their relationship went screwy long before Dean stepped out of line, and Dean doesn’t know how to fix it.

“One of these days, you’re gonna brood so hard your brain will actually explode. And then I’ll have to hide you in a shower curtain and escape to Mexico.”

“What the fuck?” Dean says.

“Aw, come on. Not even a smile?”

“It wasn’t funny,” Dean replies.

“I thought you liked morbid humor, you weirdo,” Lisa says.

Dean shuts his eyes. He used to call Cas a weirdo. It had always been a good thing, but sometimes he thinks it would’ve been better if Cas were a normal human being. They could have an actual fight, and then this shit would blow over, for better or for worse.

“What time do you have to get Claire and Emma?”

“Cas is picking them up,” Dean says. “I told him I had a meeting with Adler today that I couldn’t miss.”

“Why the hell’d you do that?”

“Why not?”

Dean expects Lisa to laugh, but she actually looks concerned now, which is really fucking rich, coming from her. “Lying because we’re meeting up makes sense, but are you just lying for the hell of it, now?”

“So what if I am?” Dean says. “Doesn’t make a difference to Cas, anyway.”

“Wow,” Lisa says. “Are you _trying_ to get caught? Because if that’s what this is, I’m not gonna be part of it anymore.”

“Don’t get preachy with me, Lis,” Dean says. “You’re the one who asked to meet up on that one night when you knew Matt wanted you to attend that benefit with him.”

“See, there was a point to that—I was trying to get out of going,” Lisa says. She shakes her head. “I’m not saying I’m better than you. Just—you oughta be careful.”

Dean just shrugs.

“Well, even if you’re not getting Claire and Emma today, I’m gonna have to go and get Ben in a bit,” Lisa says, sitting up.

The sheets fall away from her upper body, and Dean watches her as she gets out of bed and goes about getting dressed. She’s gorgeous, tanned all over, and Dean likes the way her hips sway as she moves, the gracefulness in her motions. It takes her no time at all to dress, and she pauses to give Dean a kiss before going out the door.

Dean is left alone in the hotel room, staring up at the patterned ceiling.

* * *

Dad’s late. Claire sits down on the curb and sighs, bracing her elbows on her knees. Looking to her right, she sees Emma with her latest boyfriend, a fellow freshman named Ben. He went to a different middle school from them, so they only met him this year. He’s not like Emma’s other boyfriends, in that he actually seems like a decent person, someone Claire doesn’t mind having around.

Claire and Emma really couldn’t be more different; for one, they’re fraternal twins, and two, they share very few interests and excel in different areas. Emma has always been more into physical things—she’s the one who plays sports, is good at pretty much any sport, really—while Claire has quieter, more bookish pursuits.

That isn’t to say Emma isn’t smart, of course. Possibly one of the only things they have in common is the ability to do well in the classroom. Emma just doesn’t care about her grades the way Claire does—Claire will accept no rank below first in their class, while Emma can live with B’s on her transcript now and again.

“Ben’s mom is here,” Claire announces when she sees a car pull into the parking lot and drive toward the front of the school, where they’ve been waiting. It’s been almost twenty minutes since the bus dropped off their class after the field trip, and the three of them are the only ones still here.

She looks over and sees Emma and Ben coming in her direction. Emma stops at the edge of the curb and gives Ben another kiss as the car pulls up in front of them.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Ben says. He looks down at Claire and smiles. “See you, too.”

Claire just raises an eyebrow at him, and Ben turns away to get into the car.

As the Braeden car pulls away from the curb, Emma sits down next to Claire and props her elbows on her knees, sighing.

“Dad’s late,” she says.

“You think?” Claire responds. After a pause, she asks, “Has Ben always done that?”

“Done what?”

Claire shrugs. “He looked at me funny.”

“No, he didn’t,” Emma says.

“He so did,” Claire says, frowning at her twin. “You were standing right there—didn’t you see it?”

Emma lets out a put-upon sigh and says, “Ugh, you couldn’t have waited like two more weeks before noticing? We had a bet on to see when you would pick up on it.”

Claire blinks. “Why?”

“You’re so clueless about people. I just wanted to see how long it would take you to notice that someone was making eyes at you.”

“So he’s been doing this…”

“Pretty much since we started dating,” Emma says. “So almost two months.”

Claire rolls her eyes. “Well, Dad _did_ always say that I was Pa’s daughter to a T.”

“Speaking of Pa, that’s his car,” Emma says, and Claire follows her sister’s gaze to the white Toyota Camry turning into the parking lot. “Shit, you don’t think something actually happened to Dad, do you?”

“I’m sure he’s fine,” Claire says, but she can’t help the slight worry that Emma’s words stir up in her chest. If Dad were in a car accident or something, that would certainly explain why he didn’t show, why Pa’s here instead.

The car pulls up, and Claire lets Emma take shotgun.

“Where’s Dad?” Emma asks as soon as the doors are closed.

“He has a meeting with his boss,” Pa says. “It sounded like he was very stressed when he called, so please refrain from picking a fight with him when he gets home.”

“If he gets home before our bedtime, that is,” Emma grumbles.

Pa drives the car out onto the street and says, “That is precisely the attitude I don’t want to hear from you tonight.”

Emma has a point, though. Dad has been working late more often than not, and while he says that it’s because he’s putting in more work toward a promotion, he’s been saying that for like a year now, and as far as Claire has heard, he still hasn’t been promoted.

She hardly ever sees Dad and Pa in the same room anymore.

They weren’t the most openly affectionate couple to begin with, but Claire used to catch them looking at each other, quiet and happy. Seeing the subtle evidence of their regard for each other had made her feel safer, more loved.

She hasn’t felt that sort of safety in a long time, left floating uncertainly like a ship without moorings.

Where did all their love go?

* * *

“He loves you,” Charlie says.

“Yes, I know,” Castiel says patiently.

“Then what’s the problem?” she says, looking up.

The techie is here to fix Cas’s laptop—it crashed last night when Castiel was in the middle of translating a long text, and he needs to know whether or not his work is salvageable. He realizes that he should have been backing up his work more regularly, but he’d gotten so caught up in the translation, in the play of language, that he hadn’t noticed how much time had passed since he last hit _save_.

“There _is_ no problem,” Castiel says honestly, qualifying the statement by adding, “not on my end, at least.”

“ _He_ seems to think there is,” Charlie mumbles, quietly enough that Castiel can’t tell whether or not she meant for him to hear. But since he _did_ hear the words, he decides to respond to them.

“Has he said something to you?”

“I mean, not _really_ , but… I don’t know, sorta? It’s all half-truths with him these days,” Charlie says.

“Yet you remain convinced that he loves me,” Castiel says.

“Well, so do you.”

“I’ve had a lifetime to build up faith in Dean. You and I look at him through different eyes.”

Charlie nods. “Sure,” she accepts. “I guess it’s just—I don’t know, a gut feeling. Instinct tells me that he still loves you, past all the crap he spits out.”

This makes Castiel raise an eyebrow. “Does he speak ill of me?”

“No,” Charlie says immediately, but Castiel doesn’t believe her.

It’s natural, he supposes. Every relationship runs into struggles, difficult to overcome. Dean and Castiel have known each other for something like forty years now, and they’ve been married for almost seventeen of those years. Perhaps they’ve been due a period of estrangement; Castiel doesn’t know anyone who has had a smooth marriage from beginning to end. His adoptive parents have certainly had their fair share of fights.

“Sorry, Cas,” Charlie says eventually. “I can recover your files up ‘til the last time you saved them, but anything you did after that is long gone.”

“That’s all right. It was my own fault,” Castiel answers. “Thank you for attempting.”

“You should get a new laptop. How long have you had this thing anyway, six years?”

“Seven,” Castiel says.

“Sheesh,” Charlie says. “It’s not like you can’t afford a new one.”

“Felt wasteful to get a new laptop when the old one was still functioning,” Castiel says, accepting the flash drive that Charlie holds out to him.

“Your files are all on there,” she says. Castiel nods and leads the way over to the front door to see Charlie out. She pauses in the doorway and says, “At least talk to him about it.”

“I don’t know what to talk about.”

Charlie sighs. “He’s been distant, right? Talk to him about that.”

Castiel considers it. “I was under the impression that distancing oneself in a relationship was a way of asking for space. I’ve elected to give Dean the space that he needs.”

“And has it helped?”

“I don’t know,” Castiel says. “These things take time, don’t they?”

“I guess they do,” Charlie says, but there’s an air of defeat to her words.

“I’ll speak with him,” Castiel decides. “If nothing else, at least I can confirm whether or not he needs space. Thank you, Charlie.”

“Anytime, Cas,” Charlie says, going out the door. “Get a new laptop!” she calls over her shoulder as she walks away, and Castiel just smiles. He supposes it’s about time.

* * *

Dean walks out of a late night meeting and heads straight for the car garage, annoyed. “I swear to god, he’s out to get me,” he seethes.

“It’s not personal, Dean,” Benny says.

“Of course it’s personal,” Dean responds. “They have shot down every concept I’ve pitched for marketing this damn product, and I _know_ Henriksen is the one behind it.” Benny sighs, and Dean says, “I’m not kidding. You’ve seen that _look_ he gets whenever I’m talking.”

“Just put it out of your mind. You’ve got all of next week to put together a new proposal,” Benny says. “Besides, you have a whole department behind you.”

Dean huffs. “They’re already annoyed as all hell that nothing’s gotten past the execs.”

They reach Benny’s car, and he asks, “You still want to get a drink, or…?”

“Nah, I’m just gonna head home,” Dean says.

“That’s probably for the best,” Benny says. Dean starts walking on, and Benny calls after him, “Don’t think about it when you get home, all right? That’s an order.”

“You’re not my boss,” Dean shoots back as he heads toward the Impala.

He hears Benny get into his car, and a moment later, Benny drives past him toward the exit. Dean gets into the Impala and sends a text to Lisa, asking if she’s free. He feels stressed as fuck, and the last thing he wants is to get home too early, when Cas is still up. It’s trying enough to deal with him when Dean’s in a good mood. He doesn’t know what he’ll say if he has to talk to Cas in this state.

 _Go home, Dean_ , he reads four minutes after sending the text.

Sighing, Dean lets his forehead hit the steering wheel. “Fuck,” he mutters.

Dean lingers in the parking garage for about five more minutes before taking the long way home, but he still pulls into the driveway before eleven o’clock.

At least the girls will be in bed. They probably won’t be asleep, because Dean knows they stay up late talking or texting or whatever, but at least Dean won’t have to deal with them. It’s horrible to think that way, but he just—can’t, right now.

Maybe this is his midlife crisis. He loves Cas, loves their daughters, but it just feels—different, somehow.

He hates to blame Cas, but it’s hard not to. It isn’t Cas’s fault that he’s gotten tired of Dean, that he doesn’t feel the same. That he doesn’t love Dean, at least not like he used to.

Yet despite knowing all that, Dean can’t quash the irrational part of him that resents Cas.

It’s dark in the living room when Dean steps inside, and he shuts the door. The house is quiet, still. It’s not confirmation that Cas is already asleep, but Dean feels relieved nevertheless, because there’s a bigger chance that he won’t have to talk to Cas tonight.

When did it come to this?

He has already half-shrugged off his jacket when he slips into his bedroom, the dim light from one of the bedside lamps on in the way it usually is when Cas goes to bed before him—Dean once stubbed his toe because he elected to leave the lights off to avoid waking Cas, and since then, Cas has insisted on leaving a light on for him.

That kind of consideration is still there, but where it was warm before, now it is cold, distant.

Dean thinks he hates it.

Tonight, he doesn’t even realize that Cas is sitting up in bed until he’s already thrown his jacket over the chair, and he jerks, surprised. “Cas,” he says, removing his tie to lay it over his jacket. “You’re awake.”

“As I often am,” Cas responds.

His tone is mild, normal, comfortable. It feels like Dean hasn’t heard it in forever, but that’s partly—or maybe mostly—his own fault.

“I was advised to speak with you,” Cas goes on, setting aside the book in his lap.

“Uh huh,” Dean says, cursing his luck. Maybe it’ll be about something harmless. Maybe Claire or Emma—more likely Emma—did something that warrants parental concern. “I’m a little tired,” he says as he strips out of his dress shirt and slacks. “Is it something that can wait ‘til tomorrow?”

“I feel it’d be best if we spoke now, but you can brush your teeth first,” Cas offers.

Dean accepts silently, padding across the room to the en suite bathroom in his boxers and undershirt. He takes his time brushing and flossing, and then wetting a towel to drag it over his face and neck, drawing it out in vain because he _knows_ that Cas won’t just fall asleep before their conversation can happen, but it doesn’t stop Dean from hoping that he will.

Finally, he comes back from the bathroom and goes right up to his side of the bed, sliding in under the covers. He doesn’t shy from Cas’s eyes even though part of him wants to recoil, resentful of this “caring” Cas who doesn’t actually give a _shit_ what Dean feels.

Jesus, he sounds like a whiny teenager. He wasn’t even this whiny when he was an _actual_ teenager.

“Our friends are concerned about us,” Cas says, reaching over to take Dean’s hand.

Dean wants to pull his hand away, or shove Cas’s hand off, but god, he’s starved for Cas’s touch, wants it more than anything. He thinks that’s what he hates the most about this—that he still wants Cas so badly even though Cas has become indifferent to him.

“Who?” Dean asks.

“I’d prefer not to name names,” Cas says. “It is ultimately our relationship that we are discussing, even if a friend was the one to indirectly initiate the discussion.”

Dean grits his teeth, mind already going through the possibilities—Sam, Kevin, Benny, Adam, Charlie, Jo, Garth—it could be any one of them. Any combination of them, even.

“Don’t be angry. Our friends are not nosy merely for the sake of being nosy,” Cas says, and it irks Dean to no end that Cas can read him so well, yet miss such a huge, vitally important part of him.

It certainly makes the possibility that Cas is purposefully ignoring that part of Dean all the more likely.

“They care about our relationship,” Cas continues, hand squeezing Dean’s lightly.

“And you?” Dean can’t resist saying.

Stupid, stupid. He told himself he wouldn’t crack, but he’s always been hopeless when it comes to Cas.

“What do you mean, Dean?” Cas asks, the epitome of innocence, confusion.

“Nothing,” Dean says. “Tell me what you wanted to discuss.”

Cas is still frowning, and Dean wants to kiss him. He knows that he wouldn’t get any enthusiasm in response, though, only quiet acceptance. Like Cas has been playing a role for all of their time together and just can’t be bothered to put in the effort anymore.

“I suppose I’d like to know where your head is,” Cas says. “You’ve been withdrawn for some time, Dean, and I’m worried about you.”

Only after their _friends_ point it out, apparently.

“I thought that the best course of action was to give you space, since you were pulling away, but today I was reminded that I should’ve asked you first before simply assuming that I knew what you wanted.” There’s a pause, and then Cas says, “So now I’m asking: Dean, would you like me to give you space?”

Fuck. He’s never got any clue what Cas is trying to say, these days.

Dean opens his mouth, then closes it again. How the fuck is he supposed to answer that?

When he looks over at Cas, he sees a concerned frown. But Cas’s eyes are patient, the way they always are, and Dean heaves a sigh, looking down at their hands.

“No,” he finally says, because he _doesn’t_ want space.

He wants Cas to want him.

“I’ve just been stressed out,” Dean says. “They keep dangling this promotion over my head and then finding excuses to put it off.”

“I’m sorry,” Cas says, thumb rubbing across the backs of Dean’s knuckles.

Dean only just holds back a shudder. He shouldn’t be this sensitive to touch—he and Lis have done plenty of touching. But it’s just not the same with her—it’s not _Cas_. The feeling is mutual, on Lisa’s side. Dean may not know what she and Matt are going through, but they’ve definitely got problems, too.

“Dean,” Cas says, uncertainty filtering into his eyes, “you know you could tell me anything, right?”

“Yeah,” Dean says, smiling. It’s pretty much part of his job to smile even when he doesn’t want to. He just never thought he’d have to use that skill at home. “‘Course I do,” he finishes, and he even looks up into Cas’s eyes, steeling himself when he does.

Cas smiles faintly, looking reassured. “I’m glad,” he says, leaning over and pressing a quick, dry kiss to the corner of Dean’s lips.

It takes Dean everything he has not to lean into it, not to grab onto the back of Cas’s head and drag him in for a deeper kiss. He’s done it too many times, always has to be the one to push things further, and he gets it now. Cas doesn’t want him like that, for whatever reason. Not anymore.

“You look so tired, Dean,” Cas observes, eyes compassionate as always.

Dean manages another smile. He thinks he’s at capacity. If this conversation goes on any longer, he might actually die. “Yeah, I’m pretty beat,” he says, finally pulling his hand out from under Cas’s so that he can shift to lie down on the bed.

“Rest well, then.”

Dean hums in response and closes his eyes. Through his eyelids, he can see the lights flick out. The bed bounces a little as Cas gets comfortable, and then it’s still. Dean takes a deep breath and tries to sleep.

* * *

“Dad and Pa are acting weird,” Claire says, plopping down next to Emma.

“You’re only _just_ noticing?” Emma says, raising an eyebrow. She’s got Buffy on, but this is like the zillionth time she’s watched this episode, so she doesn’t mind Claire coming in to distract her.

Claire sighs. “I noticed a while ago, but I was hoping it would get better without us ever having to _talk_ about it,” she says, turning on the couch and leaning on Emma, the back of her head coming to rest on Emma’s shoulder.

“I think Dad’s fucking somebody else,” Emma says without preamble.

Claire goes deathly still, like she’s not even breathing, and silence falls between them, surprisingly tense.

God, sometimes Emma forgets how bad Claire is at picking up on cues in body language. Dad takes special care to hide everything from Pa, but things still slip through the cracks. Emma may not be the sharpest tool in the shed, but she’s still observant. And what she’s observed over the past months—maybe even years, in retrospect—is that Dad and Pa have been falling apart.

She’s surprised they still share the same room, to be honest.

And she’s pretty sure that at least half the nights Dad says he’s working late, he’s actually out fucking whoever else he’s fucking, because he sure as hell isn’t getting any from Pa.

“Never mind,” Emma finally says, just to break the horrible silence. Sure, Buffy is still playing in the background, but it isn’t enough to cut the tension in the room.

“How can you say that?” Claire says quietly.

“I didn’t mean it.”

“But you did,” Claire insists, pulling away and twisting around to look at Emma. “Did he tell you something? Or—did you see him? Did he make you promise not to tell—”

“Calm down,” Emma says, rolling her eyes.

She’s ready to joke about how Claire is freaking out over nothing, but then she sees the stricken look on her twin’s face and thinks better of it. Cheating is kind of a big deal, she guesses. But Pa knows—must know about it—and nothing’s changed. Emma has kinda had a while to get used to the idea.

Taking pity on Claire, Emma tries to answer at least one of her questions. “Dad hasn’t told me anything. I just—have a feeling.”

“You have a _feeling_ ,” Claire says dubiously.

“Just trust me on it.”

“Then—don’t you think we have to tell Pa?”

“Do you really think Pa doesn’t already know?”

Claire looks down at her lap, where her hands are clasped together, and says, subdued, “I guess that would explain why they’re so cold to each other all the time.”

“Exactly.”

“But if they talked it out, wouldn’t it get better?”

“Do you really want to poke the hornet’s nest, Claire? I know _I_ don’t want to be the reason why they finally split up,” Emma says.

“Oh, god. They wouldn’t really, would they?”

“How should I know? All I know is, this thing’s been festering for like, a _really_ long time. You and me, we need to stay out of it.”

“What if you’re wrong?” Claire asks. “Have you ever talked to Dad about it?”

“As though he ever gives us the time of day anymore,” Emma says. It’s a Saturday morning, and he’s still supposedly in the fucking office. She doesn’t think she even heard the Impala pull in last night.

“Maybe we should talk to him,” Claire says. “If he stops, things will get better.”

“We don’t know that,” Emma says. She sighs. Maybe she shouldn’t have said anything to Claire about this, after all. “God, just—talk to him if you really want to, but I think it’ll be a mistake.”

Before Claire can respond, they hear the garage door opening, which means Pa is home. Ever the good, helpful, _responsible_ daughter, Claire hops off the couch and heads out to help him with the groceries. Shaking her head, Emma washes her hands of it all and turns her attention back to the TV.

* * *

It’s been a week and a half since Castiel broached the subject with Dean, but things have not gotten better. Dean cites his stress as the reason for his distance, but… it seems dishonest.

If Castiel really thinks about it, he thinks Dean started withdrawing even before the promotion was ever brought up. But he can’t imagine what the initial problem was. Their relationship was stable, their kids were healthy, neither of their jobs was at risk…

“Did you actually want my help, or are you just gonna keep zoning out over there?”

Castiel chuckles, ducking his head. “Sorry, Kevin,” he says. “I’m afraid I didn’t hear a word you said.”

“Yeah, I figured. What’s on your mind?” Kevin asks. His pencil has been set down, and Castiel knows from experience that it won’t be picked up again until its owner has the answers that he wants.

“Dean.”

“Well, _that_ didn’t sound happy,” Kevin comments. “Everything okay between you two?”

“I don’t doubt you’ve already discussed the… rift between us,” Castiel says. “You don’t have to pretend that you haven’t noticed.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” Kevin says, unapologetic. “Not gonna lie, you guys are scaring us a little. Charlie’s started saying that we oughta just lock you two up in a room until you fuck each other’s brains out, and then maybe everything will go back to normal.”

“I don’t think sex is the answer, here,” Castiel says immediately, dismissively. Then he frowns, rethinks it, and says, “Actually—how often do you and Sam have sex?”

Kevin sputters and chokes on nothing—or possibly his own spit. Castiel nudges the glass of water toward him, and Kevin waits until he’s done coughing to drink. “Are you serious?” he says after swallowing.

“Yes, I’m serious,” Castiel replies patiently.

“Well—how often do you and Dean have sex?” Kevin asks, dodging the question by turning it back on Castiel. Fair enough.

“It’s been several months since the last time,” Castiel responds. From the way Kevin’s eyes go wide, this is not a good response. Castiel frowns, wonders if he’s misjudged something.

“Dude. It’s the sex,” Kevin says eventually. “That is _definitely_ what’s wrong.”

“I thought that sex drive decreased with age,” Castiel says.

“Uh, sure, when people are in like, their sixties, maybe,” Kevin says. “You’re barely over forty.”

“Forty-seven, actually,” Castiel corrects, a little absentminded. Unease has crept in, distracting him.

“Okay, but how could you not—” Kevin starts, but then he stops and shakes his head. “Actually, if anyone could be that oblivious about sex, it’d be you. So what, have you got no sex drive? None at all?”

Castiel only shrugs, mind still whirring away.

He had always made sure to keep track of their physical relationship, aware that Dean was a very physical person. In fact, Castiel used to keep a count in his head, ensuring that he was the one to initiate at least once every three times he and Dean interacted sexually.

It had seemed easier that way, easier than trying to explain away his disinterest. He and Dean had had a conversation about it when they were teenagers, when Dean was still in that phase where he would sleep with anyone who said yes. Dean hadn’t understood Castiel’s lack of interest then, and Castiel hadn’t thought he would understand it better after they were married.

Then they both passed the age of forty, and assuming that the average sex drive would gradually decrease over time, Castiel had stopped paying such close attention to it.

He cannot remember precisely when he put it out of his mind, but he wonders whether that period of time corresponds to the beginning of Dean’s withdrawal from their relationship.

Has this all been Castiel’s fault?

“Cas,” Kevin says, drawing his attention, “you don’t miss it at all, then?”

“I miss the intimacy, I suppose,” Castiel answers. “The act itself is—messy. I’m not fond of it.”

Kevin frowns. “You guys have been married for years, though. How is this only just coming up now?” But before Castiel can answer him, Kevin says, “Oh, god. You’ve just been faking it, haven’t you?”

“I don’t have to feign a physical response. My body responds to stimulus just like anyone else’s.”

“Still,” Kevin says. “You can’t just pretend to want something when you don’t. That kind of dishonesty breaks relationships, Cas. Talk to Dean.”

Castiel imagines the conversation. He doesn’t think it would go well. Dean would take it personally—he would take Castiel’s general disinterest in sex as an excuse.

But then, the distance Dean has put between them could very well be the result of—of Dean thinking that Castiel is disinterested in him. It’s ludicrous, of course, as Castiel has said, far more than once, that he loves Dean, will always love him. He certainly wouldn’t endure sex for anyone else.

Returning himself to the room, Castiel finds Kevin watching him expectantly. “I don’t think that he would be very receptive to a conversation like that,” Castiel tells him.

“Then—I don’t know, soften him up a little first,” Kevin says, shrugging. “Talk to him about something easier and then transition into it or something.”

“I’ve never been adept at beating around the bush.”

“Yeah, that’s true,” Kevin says. “Maybe it’ll be better if you just lay it out. Knowing you, he’ll realize that something’s up the minute you try to be subtle about it.”

Castiel doesn’t even bother to protest—it’s true. He speaks bluntly and directly. While he is very skilled with words and meaning across languages, he lacks the instinctive tact that other people seem to have.

“Thank you for your insight, Kevin,” Castiel says. “Now, let’s get back to work.”

* * *

Claire doesn’t have a chance to talk to Dad alone until the evening of the Tuesday after she and Emma had their talk about Dad and Pa. Emma’s out on a date with Ben, and Pa’s at home, consulting Uncle Kevin on a translation. Claire had volunteered to go out and pick up dinner with Dad

It’s the perfect opportunity to talk to Dad with no interruptions, but it still takes Claire until they’re already on their way home to finally make up her mind—and gather her courage—to confront him.

“Daddy?” she says. Dad seems to be more responsive when she uses “Daddy” these days, probably because it makes her sound younger—Pa responds faster to “Papa” too, and Claire thinks it’s for the same reason.

“Yeah?”

“Emma told me something the other day, and I wasn’t sure whether or not to believe her,” she says.

Dad glances over at her with a frown. “What was it?” he asks, eyes back on the road.

Claire takes a deep breath and lets the words flow out of her as she releases it. “That you’ve been cheating on Pa.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Dad says, as though it’s preposterous, but there’s a stiffness to his posture that wasn’t there a second ago—Claire knows, because she was watching carefully.

“It’s true, isn’t it?” Claire says, biting down on her bottom lip because she wants so, so badly for Emma to be wrong, for all of this to be some horrible joke.

“Claire, I would never—”

“Don’t lie to me, please,” Claire says. “I’m not—I might not be good at reading social cues, but I can tell when you’re bullshitting, Dad. Daughter’s intuition—that’s what Emma would call it.”

Dad is quiet for a long moment, and then he pulls over to the side of the road and puts the car in park.

“What do you want me to say?” Dad asks, at length.

“The truth would be nice,” Claire says, which isn’t completely honest of her. The truth would definitely _not_ be nice, seeing as the truth is that her fathers’ marriage is falling apart, and Claire feels helpless to stop it.

“I don’t know what you want to hear,” Dad says.

“I would love to hear that none of it is true, but I really don’t think that’s an option, anymore,” Claire says sadly. “Just tell me why.”

“Why what?”

“Why you’d cheat on Pa.”

A muscle jumps in Dad’s jaw, and he looks down at his hands, resting in his lap. “You wouldn’t understand,” he says quietly.

Something inside Claire crumbles, the last vestiges of hope that Dad hadn’t betrayed Pa, hadn’t betrayed all of them, falling to pieces.

“Why did Emma tell you—what she told you?” Dad asks.

“I said that you and Pa looked unhappy. She said she knew why,” Claire replies. “She thinks Pa knows.” She’s looking at Dad, so she sees the way his face pales, just a little. “So he doesn’t know?” she asks.

“Fuck,” Dad mutters under his breath. “I don’t know, Claire. I didn’t think he did.”

“But if he doesn’t know, then why are you being so distant with each other?” Claire asks.

Dad sighs. “I really don’t know anymore.”

“Well if he doesn’t know, you’ve gotta tell him,” Claire says. “And if he does know, you’ve gotta talk to him about it.”

“I don’t know how he’ll react,” Dad says.

“Yeah, and you won’t know ‘til you tell him,” Claire points out. “Look, anything’s gotta be better than the stalemate you guys have going right now. You guys are scaring me, seriously. And Emma would never admit it, but you’re scaring her, too.”

Dad looks out the window, away from Claire. “Sorry.”

Claire wants to tell him that it’s okay, but it’s really not. So she says instead, “When we get home, I’m gonna take my dinner and walk to Grandpa and Grandma’s house. I’ll come home around ten. Emma probably won’t be back by then either, so you have until then to talk to Pa. Okay?”

Dad scrubs a hand over his face, sighing explosively.

Impatiently, Claire prods, “Dad?”

“Yeah, I heard you,” Dad says heavily, tiredly.

“Okay, then. Let’s go home.”

* * *

True to her word, as soon as they pull into the driveway, Claire wishes Dean good luck, takes the bag containing her portion of food, and starts walking away, in the direction of Bobby and Karen’s place. It isn’t a short walk, but Dean isn’t worried—Claire knows the way. Dean and Cas used to take her and Emma there all the time.

“I could give you a ride,” Dean offers, voice raised enough that Claire should be able to hear him.

“Go talk to Pa!” is Claire’s response, given without hesitation.

Left with no other choice, Dean grabs the other bag containing his and Cas’s dinner and walks around to the front door.

“Hey, Cas?” Dean calls out as he enters the room. Kevin’s car is gone, so he and Cas should be done working. Dean sets the bag down on the kitchen counter, frowning. “Cas, where are you?”

“Here,” Cas says from behind him.

Dean turns around just in time to get kissed full on the lips, nothing gentle or coy about it. He takes a step back, startled, but Cas just moves with him, hands grabbing at Dean’s shirt.

“Cas—” Dean starts, turning his head to the side.

“Claire—is she coming in?” Cas asks, even as he trails his lips along Dean’s jaw, down his neck.

“No,” Dean answers as Cas’s hands come together at his chest and begin their quick work on the buttons of his shirt. “Cas, why are you—” Dean tries, but Cas cuts him off with another kiss, hands delving under the opened halves of Dean’s shirt and shoving it over his shoulders.

Cas’s fingers trace patterns over the curves of Dean’s deltoids, then drag back around to follow the outlines of his shoulder blades, and Dean gives in, decides to just roll with it. He knows it’s wrong, knows that he should be stopping Cas, stopping him and telling him the truth before they get any further, but it’s been far too long since he last felt Cas’s skin against his.

Dean is a weak, weak man.

“Don’t speak,” Cas murmurs when he finally pulls back, eyes roving over Dean’s face.

Dean licks his lips, enjoying the subtle flush to Cas’s cheeks, the way his lips are redder than they usually are, glistening with spit. Cas is in a t-shirt and sweats, and Dean wastes no time tugging the shirt off over his head and tossing it aside, pulling Cas back in so that he can feel that chest right up against his own.

“God, Cas—”

Cas silences him with a finger pressed to his lips, eyes focused, and—right. _Don’t speak_.

Then Cas takes a step back and pushes his sweatpants off to reveal that he’s not wearing anything underneath. Dean’s mouth goes dry, head spinning a little as all the blood leaves his brain for his dick.

He almost opens his mouth, but he remembers Cas’s demand. He may not understand it, but he’s willing to obey. Christ, he doesn’t even remember the last time they fucked.

Cas palms Dean through his pants, licking and kissing the base of Dean’s neck, and it’s been a long time, but Cas doesn’t seem out of practice at all. But then, of course he wouldn’t. Cas applies so much concentration to everything that he does, annoying little perfectionist that he is.

Except it’s not so annoying now, when Cas’s hand slips under Dean’s waistband and gets a hold of his cock, working him with single-minded determination.

“Fuck,” Dean hisses despite himself, bucking into Cas’s touch.

It’s too much, after all this time.

Cas divests Dean of his pants and underwear a short while later, and he springs free, fully erect. Dean expects Cas to take him in hand again, so he’s surprised when his husband steps back, turning away from him.

“Cas?” Dean says, and god, his voice is hoarse.

Before Dean can say anything else, Cas bends over, bracing his hands on the surface of the dining room table and arching his back, sticking his ass out at Dean, and Jesus fucking _Christ_ , that’s the base of a plug only just visible between his cheeks.

Dean swallows hard. They used toys pretty often when they were younger, before they adopted the girls, but when they agreed to bring children into the home, they also agreed that they should probably keep the kinky shit locked up somewhere out of sight, where the girls couldn’t stumble upon it by accident.

“Jesus, Cas,” Dean breathes, reaching out and smoothing his hands over the curves of Cas’s cheeks, running his thumbs down until they rest on the plug. He presses down gently, and Cas makes a soft, startled sound, something Dean hasn’t heard in far too long.

He wants to ask why Cas is doing this, why _now_ , but he can’t get the words out of his mouth, can’t force himself to question something that he wants so fucking bad. Besides, Cas doesn’t want him to talk anyway, so he should just keep his mouth shut.

Dean is a horrible person.

Gripping the base of the plug, Dean tugs on it, pulls it halfway out before shoving it back inside.

Cas jerks with surprise and looks back over his shoulder. “ _Dean_ ,” he says, impatient. “Don’t tease me.”

Dean leans down then, draping himself over Cas’s back, grinding up against the generous swell of Cas’s ass. “What, you in a hurry or something?” He mouths up the length of Cas’s neck, bites his earlobe. “It’s been a while—I oughta take my time, take you apart nice and slow.”

Cas makes a disappointed sound and pushes back against Dean, needy and unashamed about it, and Dean groans at the glory of Cas’s ass, pressed up into the cradle of his hips, his cock right up in the slick furrow between Cas’s cheeks.

“Fuck,” Dean breathes, hands curving around the wings of Cas’s hips to hold him still.

But he can’t resist rolling his own hips a little, and Cas makes a soft sound, pleased, and goddamn it, there’s no point in dragging this out when Dean probably wants it more than Cas does.

“Dean—” Cas starts, but Dean brings one hand up to grab his chin, angling his head for a quick kiss.

“All right, you wanna fuck? We’re gonna fuck,” he says against the corner of Cas’s mouth before releasing his face. “I’m gonna fuck you nice and hard, make you feel it all week,” Dean adds, relishing the shudder that passes through Cas at his words.

He has a hard time pulling back to get the plug out of Cas’s ass, considering it’d be so fucking easy to just rut against him until he comes, all over Cas’s cheeks and back—god, he can almost _see_ it, sticky-wet and pooling in the small of Cas’s back, the divot of his spine—

By some miracle, Dean manages to restrain himself, taking half a step back and reaching between them to get a hold of the base. He pulls slowly, _so_ slowly, and Cas trembles, anxious, restless.

“I gotcha,” Dean says, curling his free arm under Cas’s chest and sliding it up to find his nipples. Cas yelps at the first pinch, and Dean loves it, loves how responsive Cas is to his touch.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, something bitter and ugly bubbles up, reminds him that Cas hasn’t wanted this for a long time. Something must have changed, for him to be doing this here, now. _Does_ he know that Dean’s been sleeping around? Did Claire or Emma tell him, or has he known for a while?

“ _Dean_ ,” Cas grinds out, derailing Dean’s train of thought, and Dean jerks back to reality, finds Cas shoving at the hand that’s still holding the plug. When the plug slips out, Dean lets it drop to the ground, and then Cas’s hand is wrapping around his thigh, pulling him closer.

“Hey, stop that,” Dean says, swatting his hand out of the way. He thrusts two fingers into Cas’s hole and curls them expertly, making him cry out and plant his hand back on the table. “Yeah, that’s more like it,” Dean mutters, prodding Cas’s prostate again. His husband’s arms wobble, and when Dean doesn’t let up the pressure, rubbing over that spot in circles, Cas drops to his elbows, panting and shuddering.

“Dean. D-Dean— _please_ ,” Cas grates out.

Dean straightens up and pulls his fingers out, and Cas exhales sharply, with relief or disappointment Dean can’t tell. But it doesn’t matter, because in the next moment, he’s lining himself up and pushing in, and _Jesus Christ_ , it’s been way too fucking long. He’s barely halfway in, and he already feels like he’s gonna blow his load.

“ _Fuck_ , yeah,” he groans, tipping his head down, and shit, that’s a sight he’ll never tire of seeing.

Dean grabs two handfuls of Cas’s ass and spreads him out, watches with greedy eyes as his cock slides up into hot and wet and _tight_ , slick and smooth as sin. He doesn’t give Cas time to adjust—he’s still really wet, must’ve finished prepping himself not ten minutes ago, and god, Dean could marry him again for his impeccable timing—before pulling out and shoving back in, setting a pace that’s maybe a little faster than he’d thought he would, for his next time with Cas.

Which—yeah, he’s thought about it, thought about taking the first step and ending their dry spell, but it wouldn’t have made a difference if he were the one to start it, because after it was over, nothing would change. Cas wouldn’t turn him down—he seldom turns Dean down—but he’d go on being his indifferent fucking self.

“Fuck,” Dean hisses, putting more force into each forward jab of his hips, nailing Cas into the table. “Yes, yes, fuck— _take_ it,” he grits out over the sounds of the table legs protesting, scraping against the floor.

“Duh—Dean, more— _oh_ —oh, _yes_ —” Cas moans, and makes an unintelligible noise when the next thrust jars his prostate at just the right angle.

Dean loves it, loves reducing Cas, language extraordinaire, to this helpless mess in front of him, unable to scrape together more than two monosyllabic words at a time, grunts and pleas for more, more, more. He reaches out, twists a hand in Cas’s hair, and tugs, making him arch his back, and yeah— _god_ yeah, Dean loves the shape of his spine, loves the way Cas’s hands come up to grab at his wrist and forearm.

“Yeah okay, get up here,” Dean grunts, pulling Cas upright.

Dean drives deep into him and stays there, holding Cas still with a firm hand on his lower belly, and Cas whines in protest, head lolling back against Dean’s shoulder.

Dean wraps a hand around his cock and jacks him, fast and rough, twisting on the upstroke, and fucking _yes_ , he loves the way Cas twitches and cries out, hips shifting indecisively, trying to push up into Dean’s hand and grind back onto Dean’s cock at the same time.

“Dean,” Cas rasps, hoarse, graveled, “Dean, fuck— _move_.”

“No. No, you’re gonna come for me, just like this.”

Cas shakes his head, eyes squeezed shut, hands reaching up and back, grabbing at the back of Dean’s head, scratching at his scalp.

“Can’t,” he huffs, shaking.

“Yeah, you can,” Dean answers, mouthing wetly at his temple, cheek, the corner of his mouth. “C’mon, Cas, baby, give it to me. Come on—wanna feel you come apart on my cock.”

Keeping his strokes quick and dirty, Dean removes his other arm from around Cas’s hips and reaches down between his legs, tugging on his balls, cupping them, weighing them in his hands.

“For me, Cas,” Dean says, tilting his head to get his words right into Cas’s ear. He reaches farther down, still stroking with his right hand, and presses up on Cas’s perineum, making him scream. “Just for me,” Dean breathes, low and intimate, and Cas shudders, surrenders, spurts messily all over Dean’s hand and the table—god, the fucking _dinner table_ —

Dean lets up on stroking him, bends Cas over the table, and lets loose, angling his thrusts to pound right into Cas’s prostate because he doesn’t know whether this is an isolated incident or not, but if it is, he’s gonna make damn sure Cas won’t ever forget it.

Over the filthy-wet slapping of skin on skin, Cas moans, long and loud, and it only pushes Dean to fuck him harder, faster, thighs burning with effort, because this is the only time he ever gets to rattle Cas.

And Jesus _Christ_ does it feel good. It’s like he’s never felt this alive in his fucking _life_.

“Oh, god,” Dean groans as the pressure mounts and his balls start drawing up. “God, f-fuck— _Cas_ —”

He drives into Cas one last time and stills, head thrown back, entire body drawn tight as he comes so hard it leaves him lightheaded, breathless.

Dean stays right where he is, basks in the feeling for as long as he can, but eventually he has to come down, and when he does, he staggers back, catches sight of the come that leaks out of Cas’s hole. Biting his lip, Dean grabs the plug off the floor and goes to the sink to run it under some warm water, clean it off a little.

“Dean?” Cas says, straightening slowly.

“No—stay there,” Dean says, and Cas obeys without protest, falling back onto his elbows.

“We need to talk,” Cas says deliberately, words a little sluggish. Dean has always loved how everything about Cas slows down a little after some really good sex, like Dean has literally fucked his brains out and he needs time to recover.

“Yeah, yeah, just catch your breath, first,” Dean says, wiping the plug off and returning to the table.

He taps Cas’s lower back with the plug, and Cas gets it, reaches back with one hand to help Dean hold him open. Pleased, Dean drags the plug through the trail of his come, pushing it back into Cas’s hole before easing the plug inside.

“Better keep that in at least ‘til we’ve got everything cleaned up,” Dean says, grinning as Cas straightens up gingerly, probably sore and more than a little oversensitive. Dean wipes himself off perfunctorily and then grabs a hand towel to wipe off the table—it’ll have to go straight into the washing machine.

Cas has pulled his sweats back on and is seated at the table when Dean finishes cleaning off the table and goes to rinse the towel off, and Dean can’t help but grin at the spaced out look on his face.

“You okay there, babe?” Dean says, wringing the towel out and coming back over to Cas to wipe down his front.

“Yes, I’m—fine,” Cas answers, accepting the kiss that Dean presses to his lips. “Dean, I love you,” he adds as Dean pulls back, out of nowhere.

“Yeah, I know,” Dean says, a little perplexed. “Love you, too.”

“Dean, I don’t think you understand my meaning,” Cas says, eyes on Dean’s hand as he runs the towel across his lower belly. “There’s been—there’s been distance between us, for a while now.”

“Jesus, Cas, do we really have to do this _now?_ ” Dean says, finishing off and making a beeline for the laundry room, snatching up his discarded clothes as he does.

“Yes, Dean, I really think we should,” comes Cas’s voice, not far behind him.

Dean deposits the soiled clothes and towel in the laundry machine and edges past Cas, heads upstairs to grab something more comfortable to wear.

The afterglow is all gone now, though, and fuck, Dean has still got crap to own up to. He’s just got no clue how to do it—he has no excuses, just his anger and resentment for Cas’s indifference. And maybe he can’t tell whether Cas is truly indifferent to him, but he _does_ know that accusing Cas of being indifferent won’t fly well at all.

Dean busies himself digging through their shared dresser, and he hears the door swing shut, hears Cas’s soft footfalls as he comes closer.

“It’s my fault,” Cas says quietly.

Shit. That’s Dean’s cue—he knows he ought to jump in now, stop Cas before he says anything else, because this _isn’t_ Cas’s fault. But the words are lodged somewhere in his throat, stuck, and all Dean can do is pull out a pair of his own sweatpants to put on.

“Dean, I should have had this conversation with you a long time ago, but I thought I was sparing us a lot of trouble by ignoring the matter entirely. I… have no interest in sex. I’ve never been interested in it, and while the physical sensations are—enjoyable, I am not overly fond of the—the way it strips my self-control from me. Not to mention how _messy_ it is.”

“Cas—” Dean starts, turning around.

“Please let me finish,” Cas says, and Dean holds his tongue.

He’d known that Cas wasn’t interested in sex back when they were practically kids, but that had only been because he hadn’t found the right partner… right? Cas was definitely into having sex with Dean, of that Dean had always been sure. Yet…

“I haven’t been entirely honest with you,” Cas says softly. “All I wanted was for you to be happy, and I—I knew how important physical contact was to you, so I was diligent in my attention to the sexual aspect of our relationship.”

“Are you trying to tell me you’ve been faking it this whole time?” Dean says, disbelieving.

“Not my physical responses. I couldn’t fake those if I wanted to,” Cas answers, and something inside Dean’s chest unclenches. “But my—initiations, flirtations, those were calculated. I thought it would be simpler if I maintained a veneer of sexual appetite until it was no longer necessary, but I… misjudged the normal age at which sex drive decreases.”

Dean turns away, takes a few steps farther from Cas as he tries to understand. “So you don’t like sex, even when it’s with me,” he says. Cas doesn’t answer, so Dean goes on, “For all that time, you were just—just what, pretending you wanted me, for my benefit?”

“Dean, you can’t simplify it down to that,” Cas says. “I love you. I want you. None of that is pretend. I just don’t care for the sex.”

Dean shakes his head. “That doesn’t—how can you want me but not want—”

“Not all of us are— _wired_ the same way, Dean,” Cas says, sounding frustrated. “I don’t see why that is difficult for you to understand.”

“Well, you—you always looked like you were enjoying yourself,” Dean says, turning around because he has to look at Cas, can’t do this without seeing his face.

“The sensations are pleasurable, yes, but I don’t—I want to be in control of my faculties, whenever possible,” Cas says. “And when we are engaged in sexual activity, I’m… decidedly not in control.”

“So you want me to believe that you don’t like having sex, at all, because you’re not in control,” Dean says, unable to keep the disbelief out of his voice. “It sounds a hell of a lot more like an excuse,” he adds when he doesn’t get a response, moving closer to catch Cas’s eye. “Fuck, Cas, I can’t do this. Just—taking sex out of the equation, do you actually love me?”

“Yes,” Cas says, jaw set, eyes finally meeting Dean’s and staying, not shifting away. “I love you, Dean. I’ve always loved you. Whether I want to have sex with you is irrelevant to what I feel for you.”

Dean can’t make any sense out of it. “So what, you love me like a brother or something?”

Cas shakes his head. “I know the difference between familial love and romantic love.”

“You sure about that?”

Cas’s eyebrows come down. “Don’t patronize me, Dean,” he says.

“Sorry,” Dean says. “Look, I… I’ve spent the past couple of years worrying that you weren’t…” his voice fades, and he averts his eyes, looks away from Cas, because fuck, admitting how he’s felt for all this time is gonna take him right down the road to admitting that he’s been cheating on Cas, and—

Shit, Cas deserves to know, but Dean just can’t get the words to come out of his mouth.

“That I didn’t love you?” Cas guesses, finishing Dean’s thought for him, voice startlingly tender. “Words cannot describe what I feel for you,” Cas says, and then he’s right in front of Dean, eyes wide and earnest and so, so blue.

Dean thinks he might throw up.

“Cas, fuck, I’m sorry,” he says.

“No, this was my doing,” Cas says, but he doesn’t know, he doesn’t _know_.

“Cas—”

“If I’d been honest with you from the beginning, then I wouldn’t have tried so hard to initiate—you would’ve had no cause for concern because my behavior wouldn’t have changed,” Cas says.

“Could you just listen?” Dean says, voice small. “Just—for a minute.”

“Of course.”

Cas’s hands come up to frame Dean’s face, and his expression is compassionate, contrite, and so very open.

Dean couldn’t see it before, too blinded by his anger, his frustration. He sees it now, but it’s too late—he’s already gone and done something horrible, something unforgivable.

“I’ve… done something stupid,” he says.

“We all do stupid things,” Cas says.

“No. Not—not this,” Dean says, shaking his head, and Cas looks worried, now.

But Dean knows that expression, knows that Cas is worried _for_ Dean. Still so caring, so trusting, and Dean is about to throw it all back in his face.

“I’ve been sleeping with someone else,” Dean says, heavily, closing his eyes so that he won’t have to see Cas’s immediate reaction.

“No,” Cas says, clearly a reflex.

“I thought you didn’t love me anymore,” Dean says. “And I—I just—”

“You what? Wanted to punish me?” Cas asks, grabbing Dean by the shoulders and shaking him.

Dean shoves at Cas’s arms, pushes him away. He catches sight of Cas’s face then, angry and hurt, and pain lances through his chest, pain and shame, hot and sharp.

“I don’t know, Cas,” Dean admits. “I don’t know. It’s not a good enough answer, and I’m sorry for that.”

“Is it with someone I know?”

“I swear, it’s only physical,” Dean says. “I don’t have feelings for her, and she doesn’t have any feelings for me.”

“Answer my question, Dean,” Cas says tightly.

“You’ve met her, yeah,” Dean replies. “You don’t—it doesn’t matter who it is. It’s not her fault.”

“I know it’s not _her_ fault,” Cas says sharply, the emphasis of his words making his meaning absolutely clear.

Of course it’s not Lisa’s fault. She’s got nothing to do with Dean and Cas’s relationship.

This is on Dean.

Cas goes quiet, and Dean just—wants this conversation to be over.

“So—what now?” he prods.

Cas’s eyes flick up to Dean’s for just a second before dropping away. “I think you’d better leave,” he says, moving toward the en suite bathroom.

“Cas…”

“I don’t want to see you right now.”

Dean thinks he might actually be _dying_. “I’m sorry,” he says.

Cas stops in front of the mirror, bracing his hands on either side of his sink, but he’s hanging his head, and Dean can’t see his face. “Just… go,” Cas says, lowly.

“Fuck,” Dean mutters. “Cas, I—I don’t blame you if you don’t ever want to see me again, but I—I only did it because I was angry. I thought you wouldn’t care, and that—that made me—I don’t know, reckless.”

Cas doesn’t answer, though, so Dean turns back to the dresser to grab a t-shirt. He dresses in silence, and when he looks over toward the bathroom, Cas is still here, motionless, elbows locked, body sagging a little. Dean looks at the lines of his back, the curves of his hips, the small of his back visible above the low waist of his sweats, and wonders how the hell he fucked up so bad.

“‘m sorry,” he says, one last time, before heading for the bedroom door.

“Dean.”

Cas’s voice stops him right before he can leave, hand frozen on the doorknob.

“This isn’t over,” Cas says.

Dean hardly dares to hope that Cas means what it sounds like he means. So he asks, carefully, “What isn’t over?”

“Us,” Cas replies.

Dean takes a deep breath. “So do I still have to—”

“Yes,” Cas says, uncompromising. “Go. Take some clothing and toiletries with you. Until I know I can trust you again, you do not live here. I’m going to shower now. I expect you to be gone when I get out.”

Dean exhales, long and slow. Fuck. “All right,” he says.

“I will explain to Claire and Emma why you are gone,” Cas continues. “And I expect you to come to dinner here on the weekends, for their sake.”

“Okay,” Dean says, nodding even though Cas can’t see him.

This could’ve gone a whole lot worse, he reminds himself. It’s gonna suck, showing up at Sam’s place and having to explain everything to him, but at least this isn’t over.

At least he hasn’t fucked things up beyond repair.

“Good night, Dean,” Cas says, and turns, walks out of sight.

Dean hears the shower turn on a moment later, and then he gets to packing.

* * *

When Castiel turns the shower off, the house is silent. He spent a little longer than usual, both to give Dean enough time to pack up and leave, and to thoroughly clean himself off.

It is—frustrating, to realize that Castiel spent so much time putting Dean’s needs first, trying so hard to make him feel loved in the way that he needed, when Dean, at the first sign of hardship on his end, chose not to confide in Castiel but to go out and sleep with someone else instead.

It grates on his mind, on his heart, and try as he may, he cannot put the thought out of his mind. If Dean truly loved him, truly understood him, then he would have realized that Castiel could never _stop_ loving him—the mere thought is laughable.

But Castiel supposes he is partially to blame, if part of this mess is that Dean did not fully understand him. Castiel chose to keep his opinions toward sex away from Dean, and without that context, he supposes he can understand where the doubt crept in, especially given Dean’s propensity for finding fault with himself, for thinking others above him.

Castiel exhales sharply, puts the thoughts out of his mind. If he continues down that vein for too long, he will find himself forgiving Dean far too early for this trespass, and that will not do. He is in pain, a pain that Dean’s presence would alleviate in the short term, but Castiel knows that being unable to trust Dean would destroy their relationship. Castiel, after all, is not without his own doubts, and after this betrayal, it’ll be far too easy for Castiel to become suspicious and paranoid—insufferably so.

He steps out of the shower and dries off quickly before getting dressed and going downstairs.

Dinner is still in a plastic bag on the kitchen counter, and when Castiel opens it up, he sees that both portions are still there—Dean didn’t take his with him when he left.

Castiel sighs, takes out one portion, and wraps up the other to put in the fridge. He turns toward the dinner table, but—it seems too strange to eat at the table when not an hour ago he and Dean were having sex on it. Castiel briefly entertains the notion of going over the table with some disinfecting wipes, but he soon abandons it and goes around to the other side of the kitchen counter, hopping up onto a stool to eat there instead.

It makes sense now, why Claire wasn’t with Dean when he came inside. Castiel hadn’t questioned it at the time, too focused on ‘softening Dean up’ to think it through. Now, it’s clear—Claire must know about Dean’s infidelity. Perhaps Dean asked her to stay away, or perhaps she volunteered. Either way, Dean came into the house with only two servings of dinner—he came with the intention of confessing.

Castiel is unsure how to feel about that.

* * *

After dinner, Castiel goes to his office and works on his translations, waiting for the girls to get home. Funnily enough, they arrive at almost the same time, hours later yet only minutes apart, as though they’d planned it ahead of time.

Emma is first to get back, and as she comes inside, Castiel hears her shout, “Hey, Pa? Where’s Dad?”

So she has noticed that Dean’s car isn’t in the driveway. Castiel has always known his daughters to be shrewd. Emma likes to say that she isn’t the smart one, but she is just as clever as Claire. She takes after Dean in that way—even now, despite his successful career, Dean still insists that Sam is the smart brother, that he’s more of a grunt.

“Pa,” Emma says, this time from the doorway to Castiel’s office, and Castiel spins his chair away from his desk to face her.

“Emma, there is something I need to discuss with you and your sister, but I only want to do it once, so we’ll have to wait until she gets home.”

He has scarcely finished speaking when the front door opens again, and Claire calls out, “Pa? Dad’s car isn’t in the driveway!”

Castiel huffs out a humorless laugh, bracing his elbows on his knees and leaning forward in his seat to bury his face in his hands.

“Pa, you okay?” Emma asks, gentle, and when Castiel lifts his head a little, he sees that she has taken a few steps toward him, radiating worry.

“Hey,” Claire says, appearing in the doorway. “Where’s Dad?”

Castiel had thought that he would know what to say when the time came, but when he opens his mouth, no words come out. He exhales slowly, eyes on Claire.

She knows. Castiel is certain of it.

But it is not her responsibility to make it known to Emma, Castiel reminds himself, so he says, “Your father is not going to be living with us for a while.”

He forces himself to look at his daughters’ faces as he speaks, makes sure to meet their eyes, so that they know he is not hiding anything from them. Emma looks angry, and Claire, sad.

“He has been unfaithful to me, and I have requested that he leave our home,” Castiel says, forging on.

Emma abruptly turns her back to Castiel. “You talked to him, didn’t you!” she exclaims, accusing, and Castiel jolts a little in his seat, startled.

“Well, they had to talk it out!” Claire responds, standing her ground. “And y’know what, Dad said he didn’t even think Pa knew, so—”

“Jesus _Christ_. Pa _didn’t know_ , and you convinced Dad to _tell him?_ ”

“Emma,” Castiel says, and his daughter spins around, eyes wide, as though she’d somehow forgotten he was in the room. “You knew about this ahead of time,” he says, quietly. “You _and_ Claire.”

“I didn’t _know_. I suspected,” Emma says defensively.

“She sounded pretty sure when I went to talk to her about how distant you and Dad were being,” Claire says, and Emma shoots her twin a look over her shoulder, one that Castiel cannot see but that he assumes is unfriendly.

“You should have come to me directly,” Castiel says, looking first at Claire, then at Emma.

“I assumed you already knew,” Emma says. “I mean—it was like there was a freakin’ _wall of ice_ between you guys. What was I supposed to think?”

“You could have asked,” Castiel says. Emma opens her mouth to argue, but Castiel holds up a hand, silencing her and centering himself. “Please, let’s not argue. I’ve already had to send your father out of the house tonight. I don’t want to have to leave to cool my head.”

“Pa, I’m sorry we didn’t tell you,” Claire says.

Castiel shakes his head. “No. It was unfair of me to say that to you,” he says. “It wasn’t your responsibility to shine light on your father’s mistakes. And thank you, Claire, for encouraging him to speak with me tonight.”

Claire’s eyes widen a fraction. “Did Dad say that I—”

“No, but he only brought two portions of dinner in with him tonight, and you didn’t come home with him,” Castiel says. “I put two and two together.”

“So what happens next? Are you guys getting divorced?” Emma asks, voice filled with resignation, like she has already thought this through.

Pained, Castiel gets to his feet, wonders how long his daughter has been expecting this. “Of course not,” he says, and Emma’s gaze meets his, a beat late, surprise and unwilling hope in her green eyes.

She looks so much like Dean that Castiel sometimes wonders how she could possibly be adopted.

“I love your father,” Castiel says, open, honest. Forcing a small smile, he says, “Despite everything, I believe that he still loves me, too. Or at least, that he is still capable of loving me.”

“Then… when do we get to see him again?” Claire asks, anxious.

“I’ve told him that he is to be present at the dinner table on weekends,” Castiel says.

“How long is he gonna be gone, then?” Emma asks.

Castiel licks his lips, shakes his head. “I really don’t know. I… I never once thought him capable of cheating on me, and the reality is, I can’t trust him anymore.”

He stops there, throat closing up on his words, and Claire passes by Emma, walks right up to him and puts her arms around his middle, tucks her head under his chin.

“It’s gonna be okay, Pa,” she says into his shirt, squeezing him tight.

Castiel just pats her back and looks over at Emma, who deliberates a moment longer before coming to join the hug.

“I’m sorry,” she says, soft.

Castiel only shakes his head, because his daughters have nothing to be sorry for. He kisses the tops of their heads before taking a step back, extricating himself from their embrace.

“I’ve had a trying evening, so I think I’ll go to bed now. The two of you should get ready to sleep, too. You still have school tomorrow.”

Emma sighs. “Yeah, yeah.”

Claire just says, “Good night, Pa,” and leaves the room—she usually gets the shower first because she takes a shorter amount of time than Emma does.

“I’m not angry with you,” Castiel says to Emma after Claire has gone.

“No, I know,” Emma says, nodding, and Castiel smiles, relieved that they understand each other. He starts toward the door, but Emma grabs onto his elbow, keeps him where he is. “Wait, Pa—thank you.”

Castiel huffs, slightly perplexed. “Emma, you must know I would never really blame you for—”

“Not about that,” Emma interrupts. “Thank you for—for not closing the door on Dad completely. I was so scared that you guys would never talk to each other again, and Claire and I would end up split between you guys, or maybe you’d swap us back and forth or something. That would’ve been awful.”

“Oh,” Castiel says. “Emma, I… have loved your father for longer than I remember. I felt that way about him before I even knew what it meant. This… this road bump, of sorts, is not insurmountable. But if it truly becomes irreconcilable—”

“But if Dad loves you, then you guys will be okay, right?” Emma breaks in, and Castiel loves her for the hope shining in her eyes, despite the pessimistic worldview that she chooses to project on a daily basis. “Because I know he does,” she continues. “Daughter’s intuition. He’s stupid about it—like he’s probably more melodramatic about it than a teenage girl is, and I would know, seeing as I _am_ a teenage girl—but he does.”

“I really can’t say,” Castiel says. “When I can trust him again, we’ll be okay.”

Emma smiles, hugs Castiel again. “Love you, Pa.”

“And I love you, darling.”


End file.
